Perhaps this is what drew me out into the night to follow my father and Chávez down to the bridge, or perhaps it was some concern I had for my father. I do not know. I waited until my mother was in the sala then I dressed and slipped downstairs. I glanced down the hall and saw candlelight flickering from the sala. That room was never entered unless there were Sunday visitors, or unless my mother took us in to pray novenas and rosaries for my brothers at war. I knew she was kneeling at her altar now, praying. I knew she would pray until my father returned.
I slipped out the kitchen door and into the night. It was cool. I sniffed the air; there was a tinge of autumn in it. I ran up the goat path until I caught sight of two dark shadows ahead of me. Chávez and my father.
We passed Fío’s dark house and then the tall juniper tree that stood where the hill sloped down to the bridge. Even from this distance I could hear the commotion on the bridge. As we neared the bridge I was afraid of being discovered as I had no reason for being there. My father would be very angry. To escape detection I cut to the right and was swallowed up by the dark brush of the river. I pushed through the dense bosque until I came to the bank of the river. From where I stood I could look up into the flooding beams of light that were pointed down by the excited men. I could hear them giving frenzied, shouted instructions. I looked to my left where the bridge started and saw my father and Chávez running towards the excitement at the center of the bridge.
My eyes were now accustomed to the dark, but it was a glint of light that made me turn and look at a clump of bull-rushes in the sweeping water of the river just a few yards away. What I saw made my blood run cold. Crouched in the reeds and half submerged in the muddy waters lay the figure of Lupito, the man who had killed the sheriff. The glint of light was from the pistol he held in his hand.
It was frightening enough to come upon him so suddenly, but as I dropped to my knees in fright I must have uttered a cry because he turned and looked directly at me. At that same moment a beam of light found him and illuminated a face twisted with madness. I do not know if he saw me, or if the light cut off his vision, but I saw his bitter, contorted grin. As long as I live I will never forget those wild eyes, like the eyes of a trapped, savage animal.
At the same time someone shouted from the bridge. “There!” Then all the lights found the crouched figure. He jumped and I saw him as clear as if it were daylight.
“Ayeeeeee!” He screamed a blood curdling cry that echoed down the river. The men on the bridge didn’t know what to do. They stood transfixed, looking down at the mad man waving the pistol in the air. “Ayeeeeeeee!” He cried again. It was a cry of rage and pain, and it made my soul sick. The cry of a tormented man had come to the peaceful green mystery of my river, and the great presence of the river watched from the shadows and deep recesses, as I watched from where I crouched at the bank.
“Japanese sol’jer, Japanese sol’jer!” he cried, “I am wounded. Come help me—” he called to the men on the bridge. The rising mist of the river swirled in the beams of spotlights. It was like a horrible nightmare.
Suddenly he leaped up and ran splashing through the water towards me. The lights followed him. He grew bigger, I heard his panting, the water his feet kicked up splashed on my face, and I thought he would run over me. Then as quickly as he had sprinted in my direction he turned and disappeared again into the dark clumps of reeds in the river. The lights moved in all directions, but they couldn’t find him. Some of the lights swept over me and I trembled with fear that I would be found out, or worse, that I would be mistaken for Lupito and shot.
“The crazy bastard got away!” someone shouted on the bridge.
“Ayeeeeee!” the scream sounded again. It was a cry that I did not understand, and I am sure the men on the bridge did not either. The man they hunted had slipped away from human understanding; he had become a wild animal, and they were afraid.
“Damn!” I heard them cursing themselves. Then a car with a siren and flashing red light came on the bridge. It was Vigil, the state policeman who patrolled our town.
“Chávez is dead!” I heard him shout. “He never had a chance. His brains blown out—” There was silence.
“We have to kill him!” Jasón’s father shouted. His voice was full of anger, rage and desperation.
“I have to deputize you—” Vigil started to say.
“The hell with deputizing!” Chávez shouted. “He killed my brother! ¡Está loco!” The men agreed with their silence.
“Have you spotted him?” Vigil asked.